A Christmas Child by Mrs Molesworth

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Christmas Child, by Mrs. Molesworth,

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Title: A Christmas Child

A Sketch of a Boy-Life

Author: Mrs. Molesworth

Release Date: October 8, 2010 [eBook #34045]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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CHILD***

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"The Story of Sunny."—Frontispiece.

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A CHRISTMAS CHILD

A Sketch of a Boy-Life

BY

MRS. MOLESWORTH

AUTHOR OF

'CARROTS,' 'CUCKOO CLOCK,' ETC.

Click to ENLARGE

I L L U ST R AT E D B Y WA LT E R C R A N E

'O Christmas, merry Christmas!

Is it really come again?

With its memories and greetings,

With its joy and with its pain.'

London

MACMILLAN AND CO.

1880

TO

The Two Friends

WHO WILL BEST UNDERSTAND THIS

SIMPLE LITTLE STORY

I DEDICATE IT

WITH MUCH AFFECTION

Paris, May 1880.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. Baby Ted
CHAPTER II. In the Garden
CHAPTER III. Wishes and Fears
CHAPTER IV. The Story of Sunny
CHAPTER V. The Story of Sunny (Concluded)
CHAPTER VI. Little Narcissa
CHAPTER VII. Getting Big
CHAPTER VIII. "Statistics"

CHAPTER IX. A Peacock's Feather and a Kiss
CHAPTER X. Some Rainy Adventures
CHAPTER XI. "It's only I, Mother"
CHAPTER XII. The White Cross

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

"The Story of Sunny"
"I wish thoo'd let me help thoo to cut the Grass"
"She hunted about among the Leaves and
Branches till she found a little silver Knob"
"Baby showed, or Ted thought she did, a quite
extraordinary Love for the Bouquets her
little Brother arranged for her"
"Oh dear, oh dear!" cries Beauty, jumping up in a
Fright, "he's coming to eat me"
"They were neatly tacked on to the Feather
Card, which had a very fine effect on the
Wall of the Museum"
"Master Ted, very wet indeed, made his
appearance with rosy cheeks and a
general look of self-satisfaction"

CHAPTER I.

BABY TED.

"Where did you get those eyes so blue?"

"Out of the sky as I came through."

Christmas week a good many years ago. Not an "old-fashioned" Christmas this year,

for there was no snow or ice; the sky was clear and the air pure, but yet without the
sharp, bracing clearness and purity that Master Jack Frost brings when he comes to see
us in one of his nice, bright, sunny humours. For he has humours as well as other
people—not only is he fickle in the extreme, but even black sometimes, and he is then,
I can assure you, a most disagreeable visitor. But this Christmas time he had taken it
into his head not to come at all, and the world looked rather reproachful and
disconcerted. The poor, bare December world—it misses its snow garment, so
graciously hiding all imperfections revealed by the absence of green grass and fluttering
leaves; it misses, too, its winter jewels of icicles and hoar frost. Poor old world! What
a great many Decembers you have jogged through; no wonder you begin to feel that
you need a little dressing up and adorning, like a beauty no longer as young as she has
been. Yet ever-young world, too! Who, that gazes at March's daffodils and sweet
April's primroses, can believe that the world is growing old? Sometimes one could
almost wish that it would leave off being so exquisitely, so heartlessly young. For the
daffodils nod their golden heads, the primroses smile up through their leafy nests—year
after year, they never fail us. But the children that loved them so; the little feet that
trotted so eagerly down the lanes, the tiny hands that gathered the flower-treasures
with such delight—where are they all? Men and women, some in far-off lands,
perhaps; or too wearied by cares and sorrows to look for the spring flowers of long
ago. And some—the sweetest of all, these seem—farther away still, and yet surely
nearer? in the happier land, whose flowers our fancy tries in vain to picture.

But I am forgetting a little, I think, that I am going to tell about a child to children,

and that my "tellings" begin, not in March or April, but at Christmas-time. Christmas-
time, fortunately, does not depend on Jack Frost for all its pleasures. Christmas-boxes
are just as welcome without as with his presence. And never was a Christmas-box
more welcome than one that came to a certain house by the sea one twenty-sixth of
December, now a good many years ago.

Yet it was not a very big present, nor a very uncommon present. But it was very

precious, and, to my thinking, very, very pretty; for it was a wee baby boy. Such a
dear wee baby, I think you would have called it; so neat and tiny, and with such nice
baby-blue eyes. Its hands and feet, especially, were very delightful. "Almost as pretty
as newly-hatched ducklings, aren't they?" a little girl I know once said of some baby
feet that she was admiring, and I really think she was right. No wonder was it, that the
happy people in the house by the sea were very proud of their Christmas-box, that the
baby's mother, especially, thought there never was, never could be, anything so sweet
as her baby Ted.

But poor baby Ted had not long to wait for his share of the troubles which we are

told come to all, though it does seem as if some people, and children too, had more
than others. He was a very delicate little baby. His mother did not notice it at first
because, you see, he was the first baby she had ever had of her very own, and she was
too pleased to think him anything but perfect. And indeed he was perfect of his kind,
only there was so little of him! He was like one of those very, very tiny little white
flowers that one has to hunt under the hedges for, and which surprise you by their
daintiness when you look at them closely. Only such fragile daintiness needs tender
handling, and these little half-opened buds sometimes shrink from the touch of even
the kindest of mothers and nurses, and gently fade out of their sight to bloom in a
sunnier and softer clime than ours. And knowing this, a cold chill crept round the heart
of little Ted's mother when his nurse, who was older and wiser than she, shook her
head sadly as she owned that he was about the tiniest baby she had ever seen. But the
cold chill did not stay there. Ted, who was scarcely a month old, gave a sudden smile
of baby pleasure as she was anxiously looking at him. He had caught sight of some
bright flowers on the wall, and his blue eyes had told him that the proper thing to do
was to smile at them. And his smile was to his mother like the sun breaking through a
cloud.

"I will not be afraid for my darling," said she. "God knows what is best for him, but

I think, I do think, he will live to grow a healthy, happy boy. How could a Christmas
child be anything else?"

And she was right. Day after day, week by week, month after month, the wee man

grew bigger and stronger. It was not all smooth sailing, however. He had to fight pretty
hard for his little share of the world and of life sometimes. And many a sad fit of baby-
crying made his mother's heart ache as she asked herself if after all it might not be
better for her poor little boy to give up the battle which seemed so trying to him. But
no—that was not Master Ted's opinion at all. He cried, and he would not go to sleep,
and he cried again. But all through the crying and the restlessness he was growing
stronger and bigger.

"The world strikes me as not half a bad place. I mean to look about me in it and see

all that there is to be seen," I could fancy his baby mind thinking to itself, when he was
held at his nursery window, and his bright eyes gazed out unweariedly at the beautiful
sights to be seen from it—the mountains in the distance lifting their grand old heads to
the glorious sky, which Ted looked as if he knew a good deal about if he chose to tell;
the sea near at hand with its ever-changing charm and the white sails scudding along in
the sunlight. Ah yes, little Ted was in the right—the world is a very pretty place, and a
baby boy whose special corner of it is where his was, is a very lucky little person,
notwithstanding the pains and grievances of babyhood.

And before long Ted's fits of crying became so completely a thing of the past that it

was really difficult to believe in them. All his grumbling and complaining and tears were
got over in these first few months. For "once he had got a start," as his nurse called it,
never was there a happier little fellow. Everything came right to him, and the few
clouds that now and then floated over his skies but made the sunshine seem the
brighter.

And day by day the world grew prettier and pleasanter to him. It had been very

pleasant to be carried out in his nurse's arms or wheeled along in his little carriage, but
when it came to toddling on the nice firm sands on his own sturdy legs, and sometimes
—when nurse would let him—going "kite kite close" to the playful waves, and then
jumping back again when they "pertended," as he said, to wet his little feet—ah, that
was too delightful! And almost more delightful still was it to pick up nice smooth stones
on the beach and try how far he could throw them into the sea. The sea was so pretty
and kind, he thought. It was for a long time very difficult for him to believe that it
could ever be angry and raging and wild, as he used to hear said, for of course on wet
or stormy days little Ted never went down to the shore, but stayed at home in his own
warm nursery.

There were pretty shells and stones and seaweed to be found on this delightful sea-

shore. Ted was too little to care much for such quiet business as gathering stones and
shells, but one day when he was walking with his mother she stopped so often to pick
up and examine any that took her fancy, that at last Ted's curiosity was awakened.

"What is thoo doing?" he said gravely, as if not quite sure that his mother was

behaving correctly, for nurse always told him to "walk on straight, there's a good boy,
Master Ted," and it was a little puzzling to understand that mammas might do what
little boys must not. It was one of the puzzles which Ted found there were a good
many of in the world, and which he had to think over a good deal in his own mind
before it grew clear to him. "What is thoo doing?" he asked.

"I am looking for pretty stones to take home and keep," replied his mother.

"Pitty 'tones," repeated Ted, and then he said no more, but some new ideas had

wakened in his baby mind.

Nurse noticed that he was quieter than usual that afternoon, for already Ted was a

good deal of a chatterbox. But his eyes looked bright, and plainly he had some pleasant
thought in his head. The next day was fine, and he went off with nurse for his walk.
He looked a little anxious as they got to the turn of the road, or rather to the joining of

two roads, one of which led to the sea, the other into country lanes.

"Thoo is doing to the sea?" he inquired.

"Yes, dear," nurse replied, and Ted's face cleared. When they got to the shore he

trotted on quietly, but his eyes were very busy, busier even than usual. They looked
about them in all directions, till at last they spied what they wanted, and for half a
minute or so nurse did not notice that her little charge had left her side and was lagging
behind.

"What are you about, Master Ted?" she said hastily, as glancing round she saw him

stooping down—not that he had very far to stoop, poor little man—and struggling to
lift some object at his feet.

"A 'tone," he cried, "a beauty big 'tone for Ted's muzzer," lifting in his arms a big

round stone—one of the kind that as children we used to say had dropped from the
moon—which by its nice round shape and speckledness had caught his eye. "Ted will
cally it hisself."

And with a very red face, he lugged it manfully along.

"Let me help you with it, dear," said nurse.

But "No, zank thoo," he replied firmly each time that the offer was repeated. "Ted

must cally it his own self."

And "cally" it he did, all the way. Nurse could only succeed in getting him to put it

down now and then to rest a bit, as she said, for the stone was really so big a one that
she was afraid of it seriously tiring his arms. More than once she pointed out prettier
and smaller stones, and tried to suggest that his mother might like them quite as well,
or better; but no. The bigness, the heaviness even, was its charm; to do something that
cost him an effort for mother he felt vaguely was his wish; the "lamp of sacrifice," of
self-sacrifice, had been lighted in his baby heart, never again to be extinguished.

And, oh, the happiness in that little heart when at last he reached his mother's room,

still lugging the heavy stone, and laid it at her feet!

"Ted broughtened it for thoo," he exclaimed triumphantly. And mother was so

pleased! The stone took up its place at once on the mantelpiece as an ornament, and
the wearied little man climbed up on to his mother's knee, with a look of such delight
and satisfaction as is sweet to be seen on a childish face.

So Ted's education began. He was growing beyond the birds and the flowers

already, though only a tiny man of three; and every day he found new things to
wonder at, and admire, and ask questions about, and, unlike some small people of his
age, he always listened to the answers.

After a while he found prettier presents to bring home to his mother than big stones.

With the spring days the flowers came back, and Ted, who last year had been too little
to notice them much, grew to like the other turning of the road almost better than that
which led to the sea. For down the lanes, hiding in among the hedges, or more boldly
smiling up at him in the fields, he learnt to know the old friends that all happy children
love so dearly.

One day he found some flowers that seemed to him prettier than any he had ever

seen, and full of delight he trudged home with a baby bouquet of them in his little hot
hands. It was getting past spring into summer now, and Ted felt a little tired by the
time he and his nurse had reached the house, and he ran in as usual to find his mother
and relate his adventures.

"Ted has broughtened some most beauty flowers," he eagerly cried, and his mother

stooped down to kiss and thank him, even though she was busy talking to some ladies
who had come to see her, and whom Ted in his hurry had hardly noticed. He glanced
round at them now with curiosity and interest. He rather liked ladies to come to see his

mother, only he would have liked it still better if they would have just let him stay
quietly beside her, looking at them and listening to what they said, without noticing
him. But that way of behaving would not have seemed kind, and as Ted grew older he
understood this, and learnt that it was right to feel pleased at being spoken to and even
kissed.

"How well Ted is looking," said one of the ladies to his mother. "He is growing quite

a big, strong boy. And what pretty flowers he has brought you. Are you very fond of
flowers, my little man?"

"Ses," said Ted, looking up in the lady's face.

"The wild flowers about here are very pretty," said another of the ladies.

"Very pretty," said his mother; "but it is curious, is it not, that there are no cowslips

in this country? They are such favourites of mine. I have such pleasant remembrances
of them as a child."

She turned, for Ted was tugging gently at her sleeve. "What is towslips?" he asked.

"Pretty little yellow flowers, something like primroses," said his mother.

"Oh!" said Ted. Then nurse knocked at the door, and told him his tea was ready,

and so he trotted off.

"Mother loves towslips," he said to himself two or three times over, till his nurse

asked him what he was talking about.

"But there's no cowslips here," said nurse, when he had repeated it.

"No," said Ted; "but p'raps Ted could find some. Ted will go and look to-morrow

with nursey."

"To-morrow's Sunday, Master Ted," said nurse; "I'll be going to church."

"What's church?" he asked.

"Church is everybody praying to God, all together in a big house. Don't you

remember, Master Ted?"

"Oh ses, Ted 'members," he replied. "What's praying to 'Dod, nurse?"

"Why, I am sure you know that, Master Ted. You must have forgotten. Ask your

mamma again."

Ted took her advice. Later in the evening he went downstairs to say good-night. His

mother was outside, walking about the garden, for it was a beautiful summer evening.
Ted ran to her; but on his way something caught his eye, which sent a pang to his little
heart. It was the bunch of flowers he had gathered for her, lying withered already, poor
little things, on a bench just by the door, where she had laid them when saying good-
bye to her visitors. Ted stopped short; his face grew very red, and big tears rose slowly
to his eyes. He was carefully collecting them together in his little hand when his mother
called to him.

"Come, Ted, dear," she said; "what are you about?"

More slowly than his wont Ted trotted towards her. "Muzzer doesn't care for zem,"

he said, holding out his neglected offering. "Poor f'owers dies when they's leaved out
of water."

"My darling," said his mother with real sorrow in her voice, "I am so sorry, so very

sorry, dear little Ted," and she stooped to kiss him. "Give them to me now, and I will
always keep them."

Ted was quickly consoled.

"Zem's not towslips," he said regretfully. "Ted would like towslips for muzzer." And

then with a quick change of thought he went on, "What is praying to 'Dod?" he said,
looking up eagerly with his bright blue eyes.

"Praying to God means asking Him anything we want, and then He answers us. Just

as you ask me something, and I answer you. And if what we ask is good for us, He
gives it us. That is one way of answering our prayers, but there are many ways. You
will understand better when you are bigger, dear little Ted."

Ted asked no more, but a bright pleased look came into his face. He was fond of

asking questions, but he did not ask silly ones, nor tease and tease as some children do,
and, as I said, when he got an answer he thought it well over in his little head till he got
to understand, or thought he understood. Till now his mother had thought him too little
to teach him to say his prayers, but now in her own mind she began to feel he was
getting old enough to say some simple prayer night and morning, and she resolved to
teach him some day soon.

So now she kissed him and bade him good-night.

"God bless my little boy," she said, as she patted his head with its soft fair hair

which hung in pretty careless curls, and was cut across the forehead in front like one of
Sir Joshua Reynolds' cherubs. "God bless my little boy," she said, and Ted trotted off
again, still with the bright look on his face.

He let nurse put him to bed very "goodly," though bed-time never came very

welcomely to the active little man.

"Now go to sleep, Master Ted, dear," said nurse as she covered him up and then left

the room, as she was busy about some work that evening.

Ted's room was next to his mother's. Indeed, if the doors were left open, it was

quite easy to talk one to the other. This evening his mother happened to go upstairs not
long after he had been tucked into bed. She was arranging some things in her own
room, moving about quietly not to waken him, if, as she hoped, he had fallen asleep,
for falling asleep did not come so easily to Ted as to some children. He was too busy
in his mind, he had too many things to think about and wonder about for his brain to
settle itself quietly all in a minute. And if he had a strong wish, I think it was that going-
to-bed time should never come at all!

For a minute or two no sound reached Ted's mother.

"I do hope he is asleep," she said to herself, but just then she stopped short to listen.

Ted was speaking to himself softly, but clearly and distinctly. What could he be
saying? His mother listened with a smile on her face, but the smile grew into a sort of
sweet gravity as she distinguished the words. Little Ted was praying. He had not
waited for her to teach him—his baby-spirit had found out the simple way for itself—
he was just asking God for what he wanted.

"Please, dear 'Dod," he said, "tell me why thoo won't make towslips grow in this

countly. Muzzer loves zem so."

Then came a perfect silence. Ted seemed to be holding his breath in expectation,

and somehow his mother too stood as still as could be. And after a minute or two the
little voice began again.

"Please, dear 'Dod, please do tell me," and then the silence returned as before. It did

not last so long, however, this time—not more than a minute at most had passed when
a sound of faint crying broke upon Ted's mother's hearing—the little fellow had burst
into tears.

Then his mother could stay away no longer.

"What is the matter, my boy?" she said; anxious, baby though he was, not to make

him feel ashamed of his innocent prayers by finding that she had overheard what he

had said when he thought himself alone.

"What is my Ted crying about?"

The tears, which had stopped for an instant, came back again.

"Muzzer," he said, "'Dod won't 'peak to Ted. Ted p'ayed and p'ayed, and Ted was

kite kite kiet, but 'Dod didn't 'amswer.' Is 'Dod a'leep, muzzer?"

"No, my boy, but what was it that Ted wanted so much?"

"Ted wanted towslips for muzzer, but 'Dod won't amswer," he repeated piteously.

A shower of kisses was mother's answer, and gently and patiently she tried to make

him understand the seeming silence which had caused his innocent tears. And, as was
Ted's "way," he listened and believed. But "some day," he said to his mother, "some
day," would she not take him to "a countly where towslips did grow?"

CHAPTER II.

IN THE GARDEN.

"Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow."

Songs of Seven.

Down below the garden of Ted's pretty home flowed, or danced rather, with a

constant merry babble, a tiny stream. A busy, fussy stream it was, on its way to the
beautiful little river that, in its turn, came rushing down through a mountain-gorge to
the sea. I must tell you about this mountain-gorge some time, or, if you like, we shall
visit it with Ted and his faithful companion, whom you have not yet heard about—his
father's great big Scotch collie dog, Cheviott.

You don't know what a dear dog he was, so brave, but so gentle and considerate.

He came of a brave and patient race, for you know "collies" are the famous Scotch
sheep-dogs, who to their shepherd masters are more useful than any two-legged
servant could be. And though I am not sure that "Chevie" himself had ever had to do
with "the keeping of sheep," like gentle Abel of old, yet, no doubt, as a baby doggie in
his northern home, he must have heard a good deal about it—no doubt, if his tongue
had had the power of speaking, he could have told his little master some strange stories
of adventures and narrow escapes which had happened to members of his family. For
up in the Border mountains where he was born, the storms sometimes come on so
suddenly that shepherd and flock are all but lost, and but for their faithful collies, might
never find their way home again. Often, too, in the early spring-time, the poor little
lambs go astray, or meet with some accident, such as being caught in the bushes and
being unable to escape. What, then, would become of them but for their four-footed
guardian, who summons aid before it is too late, and guides the gentle, silly lambkins
and their mothers along the right paths? I think Ted's father and mother did well when
they chose for their boy a collie like Cheviott for his companion.

Across the stream, just at the foot of the garden path which sloped down from the

house, a couple of planks were placed as a bridge. A narrow bridge, and not a very
firm one, it must be confessed, and perhaps for that very reason—because there was
something a little risky and dangerous about it—Ted, true boy that he was, was
particularly fond of crossing it. He liked to stand on it for a minute or two on the way,
"jigging" up and down to feel the shaking and trembling of the planks, but that, of
course, was only a kind of playing with danger. I don't think he would have much liked
a sudden tumble into the mischievous little brook's cold waters, very cold it would
have felt, though it looked so browny bright and tempting. And many a bath in the
brook Ted would have had, had Chevie been as much carried away by his spirits as his

little master. For no sooner did the two set off running from the top of the sloping
garden path, than Ted would call out, "A race, Chevie, a race! Who'll be at the bridge
first?" And on he would run as fast as his sturdy wee legs could carry him, Cheviott
bounding beside him with a great show of also doing his best. But—and wasn't this
clever of Chevie?—just a little way on this side of the bridge he would—not stop short,
for that might have disappointed Ted and made him feel as if they weren't having a
real race, but go gradually more slowly, as if he felt he had no chance of gaining, so
that little Ted always reached the bridge first, and stood shouting with glee and
triumph. The first time or two that Ted's mother saw this little performance she had
been frightened, for if the dog had gone on at full speed, or even only at luggage-train
speed, beside the boy, he could not have avoided tumbling him into the brook. But for
anything of this kind Cheviott was far too much of a gentleman, and after watching
them once or twice, Ted's mother felt perfectly satisfied that the little man could not be
better taken care of than by his four-footed friend.

There was another friend, too, who could very well be trusted to take care of Ted,

for though he had, of course, a very kind, good nurse in the house, nurses are not able
to be the whole day long in the garden, nor are they always very fond of being much
there. So, even though Ted was still quite a little boy, it was very nice for him to have
two such good out-door friends as Cheviott and David the gardener, the other one I am
going to tell you of.

It was a beautiful spring day. Ted woke up early, and thought to himself how nice

and bright and sunny it was going to be in the garden. He was rather in a hurry to be
dressed, for there were several things he was in a hurry to do, and the days, in summer
time especially, never seemed long enough for all he had before him. Just now these
summer days seemed really brimming over with nice things, for his big cousin Percy—
at least he was what Ted counted a "big" cousin, and he was a good many years older
than Ted—was with him for the holidays, and though Percy had some lessons to do,
still they had a good deal of time together.

"Ted wonders if Percy is 'decked' yet," said Ted to his nurse. "Decked" was the

word he always used for "dressed," and he was often made fun of for using it. His
mind was very full of Percy this morning, for he had only arrived the evening before,
and besides the pleasure of having him with him, which was always a pleasure, there
was the nice newness of it,—the things he had to show Percy, the tricks Chevie had
learnt, big dog though he was, the letters and little words Ted had himself mastered
since Percy was last there.

"I don't know that Master Percy will be ready quite so early this morning," said

nurse. "He may be a little tired with travelling yesterday."

"Ted doesn't zink Percy will be tired," said Ted. "Percy wants to see the garden.

Percy is so big, isn't he, nurse? Percy can throw sticks up in the sky so high. Percy
throwed one up in the sky up to heaven, so high that it never comed down again."

"Indeed," said nurse; "are you quite sure of that, Master Ted? Perhaps it did come

down again, but you didn't see it."

Nurse was a sensible person, you see. She did not all at once begin saying to Ted

that he was talking nonsense, or worse still that he was telling stories. For very little
children often "romance" in a sweet innocent way which has nothing whatever to do
with story-telling—I mean untruth-telling, for it is better not to call untruths "stories," is
it not? The world and the people in it, and the things they see and hear, are all new and
strange to the little creatures so lately started on their puzzling journey. What wonder
that real and fancy are mixed up together sometimes—that it is difficult to understand
that the pretty blue-bells do not sometimes tinkle in the moonlight, or that there are no
longer bears in the woods or fairies hidden among the grass? Perhaps it would be better
for us if we were more ready to believe even such passed-by fancies, than to be so
quick as we sometimes are to accuse others of wishing to deceive.

Ted looked at nurse thoughtfully.

"P'raps it did," he said. "P'raps it might have comed down again after Ted was

a'leep."

"I daresay it caught in a tree or something of that kind," said nurse, as she finished

brushing Ted's soft curls and lifted him off the chair on which he had been standing,
just as Percy put his head in at the door to ask if Ted might have a run in the garden
with him before breakfast.

"They're not down yet," said Percy, nodding his bright curly head in the direction of

Ted's father's and mother's room; "they're not ready. Nurse, do let Ted come out with
me for a bit before breakfast," and Ted trotted off, his hand in Percy's, in utmost
content.

Was there ever so clever and kind and wonderful a big boy as Percy before? Was

there ever one who knew so much about everything—cricket and croquet and football;
skating and fishing and climbing trees—things on earth and things in water—what was
there he didn't know? These were the thoughts that were busy in Ted's little brain as
he followed kind Percy about the garden, that bright summer morning, chattering
incessantly, and yet ready enough to be silent when Percy took it into his head to relate
to his tiny adorer some of his school experiences.

"Ted will go to school some day, Percy," he said half questioningly.

"Of course you will. I hope you'll come to my school if I've not left by then. I could

look after you, you know, and see that they didn't bully you."

"What's 'bully'?" asked Ted.

"Oh, teasing, you know. Setting you down because you're a little chap, and all that.

Knocking you about if you don't look sharp. All those kinds of things that big fellows
do to small ones."

Ted opened his eyes. It was not very clear to him what Percy meant—it was a new

idea, and would have distressed him greatly had he quite taken it in that big boys could
be anything but good to little ones.

"Thoo doesn't knock Ted about, and thoo is big, Percy," he said, remonstratingly.

"No, of course I don't, but that's different. You're like my brother, you know."

"And
bruvvers couldn't knock theirselves about," said Ted with an air of

satisfaction.

"N-no, I suppose not," said Percy. Boy as he was, he felt somehow that he could

not bear to destroy little Ted's beautiful faith. "But never mind about that just now," he
added; "let's run down the bank and see how the cabbages and cauliflowers are getting
on. They were just put in when I was here last;" and for some time both boys were
intensely interested in examining the state of the vegetable beds.

"Ted likes f'owers best," said the child, after a few moments' silence. "When Ted

——"

"Why don't you say 'I' and 'I like,' Teddy?" said Percy. "You're getting such a big

boy—four years old."

"Ted means I," persisted the small man. "I sall have all f'owers in Ted's garden,

when me is big."

Percy was obliged to leave off what he was about—hunting for the slugs and

caterpillars among the cabbages—in order that he might stand still and laugh.

"I'm afraid you wouldn't get the prize for grammar at our school, Ted," he said. But

Ted only laughed too.

"I haven't learnt grammar," he said slowly and distinctly. "But please, Percy, Ted

doesn't like cabbages. Come and see the f'owers. There was lots of c'ocodiles at that
side. Ted likes zem best of all, but zem's done now."

"Crocodiles," said Percy. "What can crocodiles be?"

"Little f'owers with pointy leaves," said Ted. "P'raps it isn't c'ocodiles but somesing

like coc—coco——"

"Crocuses perhaps," said Percy, as they made their way up to the house. "Yes,

they're very pretty, but they're soon done."

"When I'm big I'll have a garden where they'll never be done," said Ted. "I'll have

c'ocodiles and towslips for muzzer and—and——"

"Come in to breakfast, my man," called out his father from the dining-room. "What

have you been about this morning?"

"We'se been in the garden," said Ted, "and Percy's been 'samining the cabbages.

He's caught slugs upon slugs, worms upon worms, earwigs upon earwigs."

"My dear little boy," said Ted's father, though he couldn't help laughing, "you

mustn't learn to exaggerate."

"What's 'saggerate?" began Ted, but looking round another idea caught him.

"Where's muzzer?" he said suddenly.

"Mother is rather tired this morning," said his father. "Eat your breakfast, dear," and

then he turned to talk to Percy and ask him questions as to how he was getting on at
school.

For a minute or two neither of them noticed Ted. He sat quietly at his place, his

bowl of bread and milk before him, but he made no attempt to eat it. Then Percy
happened to see him.

"Aren't you hungry, Ted?" he said.

Ted looked up with his two blue eyes full of tears.

"Ses," he said, "Ted's hungry. But if muzzer doesn't come down Ted can't eat. Ted

won't eat nothing all day, and he'll die."

"Not quite so bad as that," said his father quietly, for he did not want Ted to see that

it was difficult not to smile at his funny way of speaking, "for see here is mother
coming."

Ted danced off his seat with pleasure.

"It's dedful when thoo's not here," he said feelingly, and now the bread and milk

was quickly despatched. "When I'm big," he continued, in the intervals of the
spoonfuls, "I'll have a house as big—as big as a mountain," his eyes glancing out of the
window, "and all the little boys in the world shall live there with all their favers and
muzzers, and Percies, and everybodies, and nobody shall never go away, not to school
or bidness, or nothing, so that they'll all be togever always."

Ted looked round for approval, and then took another spoonful.

"What a nice place you'll make of the world, my boy, when you're big," said his

father.

"Ses," said Ted with satisfaction.

"But as that time hasn't come yet, I'm afraid I must go to my 'bidness,'" his father

went on. For he had to go several times a week a good way into the country, to see
that his men were all doing their work properly. "And Percy must go with me to-day,"

he went on, "for he needs some new clothes, and I shall be driving through A——,"
which was the nearest town to which they lived.

Percy's face looked very pleased, but Ted's grew rather sad.

"Never mind, Teddy," whispered Percy. "We'll have lots of days. You must have a

good game with Chevie to keep up your spirits."

"And David is going to cut the grass to-day," said his father, "so you will have plenty

of fun."

"But Ted must be careful," said his mother; "don't touch David's sharp tools, Ted. I

was quite frightened the other day," she added; "Ted was trying to open and shut those
great big shears for clipping the borders."

"Zem was sticked fast," said Ted. "Zem opens kite easy sometimes."

"Well, don't you touch them any way," said his mother, laughing. But though Ted

said "No," I don't feel sure that he really heard what his mother was saying. His wits
were already off, I don't know where to—running after Cheviott perhaps, or farther
away still, up among the little clouds that were scudding across the blue sky that he
caught sight of out of the window.

And then his father and Percy set off, and his mother went away about her

housekeeping, sending Ted up to the nursery, and telling him that he might ask nurse
to put his big blouse on, so that he might play about the garden without risk of soiling
his clothes.

Ted felt, for him, a very little sad as he trotted out into the garden. He had hoped for

such a nice merry day with Percy. But low spirits never troubled him long. Off he set
with Cheviott for the race down to the little bridge, always the first bit of Ted's
programme, and careful Chevie as usual pulled up in plenty of time to avoid any risk of
toppling his master into the brook. Arrived on the bridge, Ted stood still and "jigged" a
little as usual. Then he peered down at the shiny water with the bright brown pebbles
sparkling up through it, and wondered what it would feel like to be a little fish.

"Little fisses," he said to himself, "always has each other to play with. They don't go

to school, and they hasn't no bidness, nor no cooks that they must be such a long time
ordering the dinners with, nor—nor beds to make and stockings to mend. I wish nurse
would 'tum out this morning. Ted doesn't like being all alone. Ted would like
somebody littler to play with, 'cos then they wouldn't go to school or out d'ives with
papa."

But just as he was thinking this, he caught sight of some one coming across the

garden, and his ideas took another turn at once.

"David, old David," he cried, "is thoo going to cut the grass? Do let me come and

help thoo, David."

And he ran back across the bridge again and made his way to David as fast as he

could.

"Good morning, Master Ted," said the gardener. "Is it beautiful day, Master Ted, to

be sure. Yes indeed."

"Ses," agreed Ted. "Good morning, old David. I'm going to stay out in the garden a

long time, a tevible long time, 'cos it's such a sprendid lovely day. What is thoo going
to do, David? Can't Ted help thoo?"

"I am going to cut the grass, Master Ted, but I not be very long—no; for it is only

the middle that's be cut. All the rest stand for hay, to be sure. Ay, indeed."

"And when will the hay be cuttened?" inquired Ted.

"That's be as Master order, and not as Master can choose neither—no," said David.

"He not able to make for the sun to shine; no, indeed; nor the rain neither,—no."

"'Dod sends rain and sun," said Ted, reverently, but yet looking at David with a sort

of curiosity.

"Well, indeed you are right, Master Ted. Yes, yes. But I must get on with my work.

God gives us work to do, too; ay, indeed; and them as not work never expect to eat,
no, never; they not care for their victual anyhow if they not work for it. No."

Ted looked rather puzzled. "Ted eats," he said,—"not victuals—Ted doesn't know

that meat—but bread and butter, and tea, and potatoes, and rice pudding, and meat,
and sometimes 'tawberry jam and apple pie and—and—lots of things. And Ted likes
zem very much, but him doesn't work."

"I not know for that, Master Ted," said David, "is it all kinds of work; ay, indeed;

and I see you very near always busy—dear me, yes; working very good, Master Ted
—ay."

"I wish thoo'd let me help thoo to cut the grass."

Click to ENLARGE

"I like to be busy. I wish thoo'd let me help thoo to cut the grass," said Ted, eyeing

David wistfully, as he started his big scythe, for the old gardener knew nothing of
mowing machines, and would most likely have looked upon them with great contempt.
But he stopped short a moment to look down at wee Ted, staring up at him and
wishing to be in his place.

"No, indeed, Master Ted bach!" he said; "you soon have your cliver little legs and

arms cut to pieces, if you use with my scythe, Master Ted—ay, indeed, d'rectly. It
look easy, to be sure, but it not so easy even for a cliver man like you, Master Ted—
no, indeed. But I tell you what you shall do. You shall help to make the grass to a
heaps, and then I put it in a barrow and wheel it off. Ay, indeed; that be the best."

This proposal was very much to Ted's taste. Chevie and he, at a safe distance from

David's scythe, thought it great fun to toss about the soft fine grass and imagine they
were helping David tremendously. And after a while, when Chevie began to think he
had had enough of it, and with a sort of condescending growl by way of explanation,
stretched himself out in the sunshine for a little forenoon sleep, David left off cutting,
and, with Ted's help of course, filled the barrow and wheeled it off to the corner where
the grass was to lie to be out of the way. It was beginning to be rather hot, though still
quite early, and Ted's face grew somewhat red with his exertions as he ran beside
David.

"You better ride now; jump in, Master Ted," said the gardener, when his barrow

was empty. So he lifted him in and wheeled him back to the lawn, which was quite
after Ted's own heart.

"Isn't thoo going to cut with thoo's big scissors?" said Ted after a while.

"It is want oiling," said David, "and I forget to do them. I shall leave the borders till

after dinner,—ay, sure," and he was going on with his scything when suddenly a voice
was heard from the house calling him.

"David, David, you're wanted," said the voice, and then the cook made her

appearance at the side of the house. "There's a note to take to——."

They could not hear to where, but David had to go. He glanced round him, and,

afraid of Ted's experiments, shouldered his scythe and walked off with it for fear of
accidents.

"Are you going in, Master Ted?" he asked.

"Nurse is going to call me when she's ready," said Ted composedly, and knowing

that the little fellow often played about by himself for a while, good David left him
without any more anxiety. He had got his scythe safe, he never thought of the big pair
of shears he had left lying in the grass!

Now these gigantic "scissors" as he called them had always had a wonderful

attraction for Ted. He used to think how funny they would look beside the very tiny
fine pair his mother worked with—the pretty scissors that lay in her little case lined
with velvet and satin. Ted had not, in those days, heard of Gulliver and his strange
adventures, but if he had, one might have imagined that to his fancy the two pairs of
scissors were like a Brobdignag and a Lilliputian. And no sooner had David
disappeared than unfortunately the great scissors caught his eyes.

"Zem's still sticked fast," he said to himself. "David says zem needs oil. Wiss I had

some oil. P'raps the fissy oil to make Ted grow big would do. But the scissors is big
enough. Ted wonders if the fissy oil would make zem bigger. Zem couldn't be much
bigger."

Ted laughed a little to himself at the funny fancy. Then he sat and stared at the

scissors. What did they remind him of? Ah yes, they were like the shears of "the great,
long, red-legged scissor man," in the wonderful story of "Conrad Suck-a-thumb," in his
German picture-book. Almost, as he gazed at them, it seemed to Ted that the figure of
the scissors man would suddenly dart out from among the bushes and seize his
property.

"But him wouldn't cut Ted's fumbs," thought the little man to himself, "'cos Ted

never sucks zem. What a pity the scissors is sticked fast! Poor David can't cut with
zem. P'raps Ted could oilen zem for poor David! Ted will go and get some fissy oil."

No sooner thought than done. Up jumped Ted, and was starting off to the house

when a growl from Cheviott made him stop. The dog had just awakened, and seeing
his little master setting off somewhere thought it his business to inquire where to and
why. He lifted his head and gave it a sort of sleepy shake, then growled again, but
gently of course.

"What did thoo say, Chevie?" said Ted. "Did thoo want to know where I was going?

Stay here, Chevie. Ted will be back in a minute—him's on'y going to get some fissy oil
to oilen poor David's scissors."

And off he set, though a third growl from Cheviott followed him as he ran.

"What does Chevie mean?" thought Ted. "P'raps him's thinking muzzer said Ted

mustn't touch zem big scissors. But muzzer on'y meant Ted wasn't to cutten with zem.
Muzzer would like Ted to help poor David," and, his conscience quite at rest, he
trotted on contentedly.